The butterfly wavered with intricate gentleness, clinging with some effort to the edge of her wine glass. She had been about to drain the last of her pinot grigio, but now she found it far more refreshing to watch this brightly colored creature attempt to reach the golden liquid.
Do butterflies really like wine? she wondered to herself. Only white, or would they prefer red? It was difficult, she found, to imagine a butterfly sipping merlot, so she decided that it must be white for them, just as it was for her.
Or maybe she was taking this far too seriously, allowing a random detail like this to distract her yet again from the issue at hand. She was going to have to tell him very soon, and the longer she put it off, the greater the risk that he — or more likely one of his sisters — would notice first. Once he was done with his initial freak-out he was almost certainly going to want to know if it was his. And she still hadn’t decided what she wanted to tell him about that. She doubted the truth would do any good.
“Sorry, butterfly,” she murmured, gently nudging it off the glass and into erratic flight. She was going to drink the rest of that wine after all.